


Out of Control

by orphan_account



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: C137cest, Incest, Sub Rick, Voyeurism, cuckolding???, dom! older morty, insecure cute old man, rickmorty, rorty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 09:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Rick is being pushed past his limits - a cocky Morty is a real....a real bad thing, yep. For exactly this reason. He's losing control, the more Morty brings home these strangers, looking the picture of debauchery in every room of the house.God, he's doing this on purpose.He has to be.(Three Shot - previously a tumblr exclusive, complete!!!)





	1. The Root Cause

If Rick believed in a God, he would thoroughly believe that he was being tested. He’s doing his damn best to get some work done, he really is, but he’s unable to keep his mind from wandering. He thought he’d be happier with Morty staying at home – like he’d won some sort of battle by getting him to go to a local community college instead of follow Summer and her high-flying dreams. ‘ _It would be better,’_  Rick told himself – _‘we could still go on adventures’._

 

Rick and Morty forever and ever.

 

Now it just felt like Morty was in open rebellion in response to Rick’s little win. Every little thing felt like a battle in its own right, from who got the last pancake at breakfast, to what dimension they were portalling to next. For every little pull Rick did, trying to seize control over his grandson, the more Morty would push, and keep on pushing, until Rick was close to his wit’s end. Testing how far he could push his grandpa until he rolled over and let him  _win something._ He wouldn’t stop until he did.

 

“M-Morty, you’ve gotta - you’ve gotta stop with this shit. Grandpa’s trying to work here,” he’d swung open the garage door, and didn’t bother to avert his gaze when he catches sight of two figures rutting against the thinnest part of the wall. 

 

Morty doesn’t miss a beat, tongue lolling out down past his lip to his chin, wild-eyed, the little shit doesn’t even break rhythm -  _he never does_  - and he replies like Rick is an inconvenience, hissing with heady impatience. A year and a half ago, he could have counted on Morty to stammer, to shriek like a girl, pull up his pants and turn scarlet. Instead, he’s seized with annoyance, and he looks at his grandfather with a piercing scowl.

 

“So put on headphones,”he turns back to the figure he has up against the wall, pinned under his body. His tone is cold, and his smirk tells him he doesn’t care much for being ordered around anymore.

 

Now Rick knows he’s lost control.

 

And of _course,_  it would be a redhead he’s fucking. Morty’s a man of particular types. Since he started college, he was a bit broader with whether or not they had to be Jessica or even  _Jessica-shaped_ , Hell, this time it was a boy. At first, Rick had been proud. Shit, who wouldn’t be? His awkward, stuttering, wiry and unimpressive grandson was finally  _flourishing._

 

His stupid, late onset puberty picked it’s moment, truly. Morty remained short and relatively unpopular, then in his senior year he just - _he changed._ The sleeping Sanchez genes finally worked their magic. He’d gotten the lanky frame that had passed to Beth and Summer, but with Rick’s narrower hips and all of the wildness in his curly hair - and _fuck,_  does he wear it good. 

 

However, this very quickly began to be a problem.

 

“Fuck’s sake Morty,” Rick mutters, closing the door and searching for noise-cancelling headphones. His unibrow sets into a scowl when all of the items on his shelf begin to vibrate and edge closer to the edge every time Morty slams his latest squeeze against the wall. 

 

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, sinking into his chair, propping his feet up on the desk. He’d long since stopped cringing or reacting to it now, he’d walked in on Morty so many times and he swears the kid does it on purpose. Fresher’s week at college had been the worst, it felt like he was doing it damn near daily. Rick was all for free love, and all - at first he’d even cheered Morty on silently, but now - now it was getting ridiculous, and Rick had already taken so much from him - opportunity wise - that he didn’t want to be  _that old geriatric_ who pulled horny teens apart and stopped them having fun. It was antithetical to who he was and yet…

 

_“Ah–ahn - R–Rick - !“  
_

 

He was about to drag the headphones up over his ears when he catches his name in Morty’s throat and feels himself freeze for a moment. There’s needy gratuitous panting, with Rick’s name as the comma between every shuddering breath.

 

 _‘What the fu— ah,’ -_  Rick’s confusion stopped midway when he remembers whose pinned under Morty’s body. Second year, Ricky Cavanaugh, wasting his college fund on a degree in Art History, really, Morty could do so much better - Rick thinks.

 

‘Of  _course_  he’s fucking someone with the same name. Of course he’s saying  _Rick_ instead of  _Ricky_  - the little  **turd** –! He’s doing this on _purpose_ he has to be. Or at least, it’s hotter if it thinks of it like that, of Morty teasing him at every turn. 

 

“ _F-fuck, Rick -_  y–you - _ah shit, **yes**  - just like that,_”

 

Rick can feel the warmth starting to pool southward down from his gut to his loins in tandem with his own self-disgust. It’s a human reaction - he tells himself, a biological one. People having sex, hell,  _aliens_  having sex - it was natural to get aroused over it. It’s why people watch porn, right? He can’t help it that his cock twitches when his name is in Morty’s mouth like that. Morty’s noises are getting more and more graphic - the kid’s fucking vocal - and all he can do is imagine from his chair what’s happening on the other side. Morty murmuring at him to clench in that way that he likes, telling him where to put his legs, shoving him downwards onto his–

 

 _“–I need a cold drink!’ -_ he lies to himself, swings open the door and takes in the sight through his peripheral vision first, before sneaking glances when striding past.

 

God, maybe he needs a drink after all - because his mouth goes dry at the sight. 

 

Morty - there he is in all his newfound 5″11 height, barely an inch shorter than Rick but strong enough to lift him effortlessly. Gone is the yellow tee and simple jeans and instead they’re black slacks pooling around his ankles, and his shirt is a mustard coloured button-down vest which is hanging off his shoulders, undone to the bottom and revealing a smooth, lithe chest glistening under his own sweat. His head is thankfully tipped back enough with his eyes shut that he doesn’t know Rick’s taking a moment to absorb the sight. It’s enough that Rick’s uncomfortably palming himself over his own pants once in the safety of the kitchen, holding a beer from the fridge shakily with his other hand.

 

 _“Please - let me - let me - Morty - I need–”_  Cavanaugh doesn’t look much better, he’s practically eating the carpet floor when Rick walks past to go back to the garage. Morty’s moved him onto the ground, ass up and forcing him to claw the ground while his red hair covers up his tear-streaked face, but his smile is practically ear to ear. 

 

 _“Shut up, Rick,”_ the biting harshness instantly casts Rick to all the times Morty’s said it to him out of frustration, but with an undercurrent of lust that had never been directed at him. A wild spike of jealousy hits before he cringes internally, trying to ignore how hard he is, trying to think of how  _wrong_  it is - and that he’s not some kind of  _Mortyphile_ like some of the more…disreputable Ricks.

 

 _"We’re done when I say we’re done,”_ Morty is bereft of stutter when he’s like this, he’s more aggressive than Rick’s ever seen him sans for when they’re out purging, or fighting. 

 

And God **damn** if it isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen and he  _hates_  it. He hates that this is what’s getting him hard. 

 

Morty’s head tips forward, his hands digging into Cavanaugh’s thighs and propping him up while he drives himself into him, pushing the boy’s head rhythmically into the wall when he does it, eyes shut. Morty’s eyes open a moment after once he tilts forward, and they briefly lock with Rick’s. He doesn’t look away, and instead nearly pulls himself right the way from Cavanaugh, revealing his the thick, swollen shaft, pulsing with the same red heat that was creeping up against the paleness of Morty’s neck when he was fucking something.

 

A long whine fills the corridor to the garage and staircase, before Morty pushes himself back in with one, fluid, harsh movement that makes Cavanaugh echo Morty’s name until it’s bouncing off the walls. It’s now that Rick glances down further past Morty’s crotch to the fact he’s holding up some balled up underwear - the other boy’s most likely, trying to catch him from forming a needy puddle of cum on their carpets, but just the arm movement tells him that he’s getting the reach around too. His thrusts are rougher now - angrier, even - and Rick can hear his name like a mantra now while Morty relishes in Cavanaugh’s tightness.

 

_‘Rick, Rick, Rick, Rick - th-there’s a good… good… boy - fuck - Rick -_

 

He doesn’t break eye contact with his grandpa for even a second until his eyes wander down to his belt-line and he smirks, tongue flicking down to his lower lip almost hungrily.

 

_The little fucker, he is doing it on purpose - **he is.**_

 

 It’s only now that Rick realises he’s just been standing there, holding his beer, open-mouthed and quickly turns away, heading back for the garage before he even realises how noticeable his erection was. Rick slams his back against the door and slides down it miserably, feeling the thin layer of perspiration build up under his lab coat, he groans slightly when his ass hits the floor.

 

 _Good boy_  - why the _fuck_ did that turn him on? Usually he wants to stomp the shit out of a smug, cocky Morty-attitude. A cocky Morty is… bad news. Rick grimaces as his resolve crumbles, long fingers slipping into the front of his pants and immediately under his boxers. His whole body is uncomfortably warm, and with an uncharacteristic flush, he realises he’s stained his left thigh with precum in a dark patch near his front.

 

Fuck. Morty’s seen it too - but he can’t bring himself to care, Morty doesn’t - so why should he? Rick presses the side of his face against the cool door, ear brushed up against the wood perfectly as he wraps his hand firmly around his cock.

 

_‘Can’t believe I’m jerking it to my fucking grands—’_

 

“Cum for me - Rick - make a fucking mess of yourself - you’ve been begging me all week to let you, cum for me Rick–” 

 

Rick curses, feeling heat pass through both cheeks as a whimper escapes before he can stop it, his movements becoming desperate, needy and frantic.

 

Morty’s gonna be the death of him, he knows it.


	2. Meet Me at Six

 

 

The disgust C137 feels for himself is overwhelming. When he comes down from the pleasure high, his face is screwed up in distaste when he’s mopping himself clean with a spare rag he’d left lingering on his workstation. He didn’t know what to think – it couldn’t be that his Morty is attracted to him – they were genetically  _related,_ Rick was his  _grandfather_ and Rick was  _old_. It had to be some exhibitionist thing. Morty had always been a suffocatingly horny teenager and just because he’d entered adulthood doesn’t mean that’s changed. He fell for every halfway pretty girl-shaped creature that paid attention to him for more than a moment on their old adventures, so now he was an adult – yeah it was worse. A lot worse - and manifested itself… like _this_.

 

 _‘It’s just a horny-guy thing. My grandson is a pervert, and he probably gets that off me,’_ \- Rick reasons. He’d always been a hypersexual sort of man, often leaving a much younger Morty to wait awkwardly in the ship while he went in search of pleasure. It’s a lot easier for Rick to believe that Morty is just a weirdo into being caught, into exhibitionism – and that it was less to do with Rick being related to him and more of him just being the voyeur that was getting him off.

 

The little shit - he has the nerve to act like everything’s completely normal in the space of hour. He’s cleaned up, curls neatly back in place, mustard vest buttoned to the collar and a too-innocent smile on his face.

 

“H-Hey, Grandpa Rick,” ah fuck, he only calls him  **Grandpa** Rick when he wants something these days. It unfailingly made him soften towards Morty, but Rick had always thought it was imperceptible. It seems Morty has gotten a lot better at manipulating him over the years. Only now - following that shameful little self-love session, Grandpa Rick just sounds dirty to his ears. He does his best to ignore the thought.

 

“What– what do you want, Morty?” impatience in his tone, because he can tell Morty’s just readying him up to ask him a favour, the wide-eyed butter-wouldn’t-melt look was practically foreplay. Even the wringing of his hands was an act.

 

Little bastard.

 

“C-can you, can you - maybe - make me a fake ID?” Morty decides to be blunt, and just come out with it.

 

Whatever Rick had expected him to say - it wasn’t that. The filthy rag is tossed deeply into a wastebasket and he makes like he’s tinkering with something just to keep his hands busy. Morty hoists himself onto a clearer section of desk - a feat which usually took a bit more effort, but nowadays is one fluid movement. His legs barely dangle off the end and can still make contact with the floor if he wants - reminding Rick again that he’s no longer small.

Morty’s request is so… so mundane - that a derisive snort escapes him before he can stop it. Still, maybe focusing on that will take his mind off of…Morty and Cavanaugh.

 

“Shit, you’re a bit late aren’t you? It’s the first thing Summer asked me to do before she - before she left,” he says. Privately, Rick always thought America’s drinking age was stupid, and that was before he’d become an alcoholic. Hell - some kids in Europe drank as young as sixteen - some places didn’t even have one. 21 - really? Morty’s just shy of it, and all of Rick’s interference had him starting college embarrassingly late, but he still can’t legally buy alcohol. 

 

Rick doesn’t look at him. He’s trying to calm his heartbeat and repeating soothing mantras in his head while his fingers manipulate the wires to a laser he’s repairing.

 

_‘He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. Everything’s normal now. What he’s asking for is - is normal. Normal.’_

 

He tries to tell himself Morty didn’t care about seeing him hard, that there wasn’t a river of tension between them. If he said it enough to himself, maybe he could believe it.

 

“W-w-why would I do that? So you can get drunk with a bunch of frat— _urrrp—_ boys? It’s a waste of time Morty,  _they’re_  a waste of time,” 

 

But fuck the way Morty’s looking at him - he turns back to the device in his hand and ignores how intensely his grandson studies his fingers. Morty can sense the jealousy in his grandfather’s tone and doesn’t fight the smirk. It satisfies him that he’s the crutch of the smartest person in the universes, plural. The fact he  _needs_ Morty is the kind of submission that makes him wake up sweating and horny at 3AM. All of the years of being told he’s pathetic, or that he needs Rick to do anything of importance - he finds himself more than making up for and aggressively overcompensating for in his adulthood. 

 

Morty stretches out one leg effortlessly until it hits the arm rest of Rick’s swivel chair, and kicks it before stopping it perfectly in place with his other leg. It swings Rick to look at him, and suddenly the older man finds himself oddly vulnerable. Morty’s legs are splayed open with both camel ankle boots with an elongated pointed toe on both arm rests  - Rick for a moment, imagines one pressed against his chest bossily. It’s hot - he groans internally.

 

His knees are raised and Morty’s hands lay flat either side of his hips against the desk, managing to look casually domineering.

 

 _‘_ _What the fuck? Tone it down pervy old man’ -_  He’s not usually one to self-flagellate over something as mundane as a dirty thought or fantasy, but even Rick finds this predilection… dirty, and does his best not to let his eyes run up Morty’s slacks to his crotch, because it’s the first thing in his immediate line of sight. Rick dragged his eyes up to Morty’s, and catches a long, wolfish grin that makes him uncomfortable again - because it’s so different to the faux-innocence mere moments prior. He’s flipped like a switch, and he cannot help but wonder at how manipulative his grandson was.

 

“Geez Grandpa Rick, so it’s okay for Summer but not me? I just - I just need to get into this place, and they card you there. I don’t really care about drinking,” he’s just going where the parties are, he promised Cavanaugh he’d at least show his face.

 

Rick caves under the intensity of Morty’s expression - and he does that thing - that thing Rick fucking hates which he’s started doing recently, when he runs his tongue over his teeth. Combined with that smile and the way it raises his lips before he licks them, it makes him look absolutely predatory. It’s the look he’s seen directed at Cavanaugh, Jessica, Eliza, Reece – and some others that Rick can’t place at the moment. He almost shivers - and wonders if other Morty’s had turned out like this or if it was just his.

 

“Fine!” Rick snaps waspishly, putting the laser to one side. “Lose the few brain cells you have, see if I give a shit,” he adds with a roll of his eyes.

 

If Morty wanted to just drink, he’d be okay with that, but no - Morty wants to go out. Morty wants to go out and see people and spend time with people that weren’t him and bring home another random and Rick can’t stand it, but he can’t stand it anymore than he can stand his own burgeoning attraction. It’s all so sick.

 

Then he’s all sunshine again, the moment Rick agrees. The legs drop and he jumps off the desk to his feet, beaming at him and looking like he wants to come a little closer, before deciding the better of it, like he’s trying to uncork some of the tensity which had begun to strangle the atmosphere of the garage.

 

“Thanks Grandpa Rick!” 

 

_‘Manipulative little turd....'_

* * *

 

_((Later that Night))_

_‘This is ridiculous’_ \- Rick thinks to himself, clutching a long, dip-down vest that exposed most of his chest. _‘I’m ridiculous’._ He tells himself he’s just being a concerned grandpa and all that, but that lie doesn’t even float with himself for longer than a second before he snorts to himself. Yeah. Right.

 

This is obsessive, and fifty shades of unhealthy.

 

It’s not like he could make Morty want him, he’s just a tool in his sexual games - a bystander, maybe part of some sort of humiliation kink for his partners  _‘(fuck, does he have that? God Morty…why are you like this?)’-_ because he knows more than one of them had shrieked when being caught by Rick, but Morty always carried on, and they never begged him to stop. It was wrong that he even wanted Morty to want him, but he can’t erase that moment - that moment where their eyes locked and his name came moaned out so sweetly from his grandson’s lips, and he’s too morally flexible to actually wipe it from his own mind. It’s too hot - he can’t remember the last time he’d made himself cum so hard on his own, and Rick’s too selfish to deny himself a fantasy that good. 

 

He throws on the vest, and open jacket he feels like he’s too old for, and upon glancing down at his skull shaped belt-buckle, he grimaces.

 

_‘Definitely too old for this shit. Fuck it. Gotta own it.’_

 

Rick dons his old Flesh Curtains band gear, if only because he knows he’ll stick out even more in his lab coat, and even goes as far back to brush his hair back and downward, incidentally covering where his hair thinned to a bald spot at the back - something he never really thought about until then - and wondered where this vicious insecurity came from. Rick was a lot of things - but insecure was not one of them. He glances at his old piercings, and realises it’s been so long that they’ve closed up. ‘ _That’s fine,’_  he muses, he doesn’t want to look like he’s trying any harder than he is.

 

He knows exactly what club Morty’s headed to - it’s The Six, on Broadway Rd in down town Seattle. It’s a college bar road, usually - but they had all sorts come and go, and he hopes the dark mood of The Six will hide just how out of place he feels. Rick tells himself he’s going to keep an eye on Morty, but again, it doesn’t wash. He’s jealous - he’s hung-up - like some idiotic teenager because Morty’s fucked up little sex games involved him as a passive participant and he can’t - can’t handle the idea of Morty coming home with someone else. Not again. Not after hearing his name moaned like that. It’ll fucking break him.

 

Rick lies to himself again as he pushes past the doors to The Six and the bouncer doesn’t bother carding his old ass. 

 

If he watches Morty sink his teeth into his target, that hot person-to-person chemistry for himself, and feels nothing, then it’ll be okay, and he can handle another stranger getting fucked into the floor of their home.

 

He’s doing this for his own mental reassurance. This is not an obsession.  _It is not._ Hell, he isn’t even sure if he wants Morty to spot him, he’ll just breeze in and out. Like a ghost.

 

When he enters, the clubs strobe lights hit him first, with the words  _BURLESQUE_ in bright, holographic lettering on a large screen behind some C-rate DJ. There’s a stage too, with people watching eager performers from Seattle U’s Burlesque Society - surprisingly, Cavanaugh’s a performer, leading a troupe of leggy, corsetted females. He feels uncomfortable - pervier - even, surrounded by all these college kids even though they’re well above the age of consent. These aren’t one of his parties, where he dictates the guest list and snorts alien crystals until he feels happy in his own skin, no. This isn’t within Rick’s area of control. Nothing to do with Morty felt like it was anymore.

 

“Morty,” he lets out a low gasp that’s drowned out by the low, crooning, dulcet tones of a band he doesn’t recognise, but firmly mimics the 80s, singing of suspenders and stockings. All of it in theme. 

 

Morty’s body lights up the room - at least to Rick - he’s moving a little awkwardly but happily, clapping and giving Cavanaugh the thumbs up when they catch sight of each other. They’re friends with benefits - not just a casual fuck like the rest. That makes the jealousy feel even worse. Fuck. How does he compete with that? He might be the smartest man in the universe but he isn’t shaped like anything Morty likes, even if he entertains the sick fantasy a few times…

 

His heart pounds when Morty turns his head - and spots him easily when a strobe light brushes over him, lighting up his electric blue eyes.

 

Fuck.

 

The closer he gets, the more he can see of Morty. He didn’t catch him leaving, he just slid the ID under the door while he got changed - trying not to catch him undressed, it never used to bother him but now….now it did.

 

However, it left him unprepared for the sight that was before him. All of the leggy teenager, propped up on slick, high Cuban heels - the pair of Gareth Pugh’s one of his string of lays gave him. Like he needs to be any taller -  _fuck._

 

_‘You’re not making this easier Morty.’_

 

Any thought of confronting his feelings and severing them when he sees Morty wooing his next target disappear when Rick unwittingly, becomes the next target as that same wolfish grin from the garage appears again, making him swallow nervously.

 

It’s rare he’s nervous - he’d even taken a few swigs of his flask before he’d even entered, but the dutch courage was doing nothing for him now. Morty’s fucking stunning - his body lights up the room effortlessly, his bumbling, awkward gait is erased by the new walk he’s had to adopt for the sake of the shoes and it gives his hips a wonderful almost imperceptible sway and props his ass up so–

 

 _‘Stop’ –_ Rick moans internally  _‘You fucked up piece of shit…’_ but his eyes don’t stop drinking him in. Tight, dark chinos around his legs - a button down vest which is half tucked in, half out - and a lazy, casual blazer. He’s dressed so much more simply than everyone there, including Rick, but makes it look effortlessly good. When Morty rocks up to him - and the music changes to something more punkish, and fitting, he throws his arms around Rick’s shoulders lazily.

 

He’s not angry at Rick for following him there. 

 

Morty silently drinks in his attire on the way there, aware they were mutually checking each other out - but paying it no mind. The music is so loud they cant hear each other without shouting, but by the time they’re close enough to lock bodies, Rick realises Morty is now tall enough to be perfectly eye level with him. It robs his ability to speak for a moment, Morty’s lips move - he cant hear him, but he swears he’s mouthing  _“Dance! Have some fun!”_ \- brown eyes looking closer to fiery, amber flames in the light.

 

Rick can’t reply, it’s too loud, so he uselessly tucks himself closer to Morty, feeling uncomfortable when his hands settle around him easily and they’re dancing like they aren’t related. 

 

Morty can tell Rick looks uncomfortable - he isn’t sure if it’s with him, or with the atmosphere, or because he’s not snorting alien crystals this time around. He knows Rick’s here because he’s jealous - he hasn’t gotten Cavanaugh out of his head and–

 

And it’s exactly what Morty planned.

 

The dancing is innocent enough, only occasionally bumping each other with bony, vaguely erotic connotations, it’s mostly innocent bouncing on the spot and Morty grinning ear to ear, like he’s got Rick between his teeth.

 

In a way, he has. Rick can’t back out now even if he wanted to.

 

 _“BATHROOM?”_ Morty yells - gesturing with his head to the far side of the club. Rick nods, and follows him mutely when he grabs his hand in a vice grip, releasing his shoulders and dragging him to the privacy of the bathroom. They could hear each other in here at least, with the pounding music as a backdrop instead of it drowning them both out.

 

_‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck - he’s gonna have to explain himself to Morty now, isn’t he?’_

 

There’s not many in the stalls, but it’s grimy as all hell, with cigarette butts littering the floor and the vague smell of urine mixed with alcohol. Morty is quick to pull them to the furthest and most private one, slamming the door shut before he gives Rick a moment to process that the bathroom alone wasn’t private enough, and that he’d agreed to a confined space with Morty.

 

“Didn’t - didn’t expect you to come too Rick. We could have left together,” his voice is lower, gravelly almost - because he’d had a few drinks, not much - just a shot or so, but it always sandpapered his throat something awful. It’s why he didn’t like drinking much, Rick knew.

 

“Bit late for a mid-life crisis isn’t it?” Morty chuckles cockily, pinning Rick under him incidentally, like a butterfly under a needle.

 

The scientist does his best not to let the offhand remark play on his strange insecurities. He walked into this club like he owned it, and he planned on maintaining that facade if he could.

 

“Fuck you Morty,” comes out of his mouth automatically before he can stop it, only for him to get an amused eyebrow raise in response.

 

Morty looks Rick up and down in the much clearer light of the bathroom - he can see all the details now. The tiredness of Rick’s eyes, the dryness of his lips, the faint, sprawling hairs on his chest in that too-low vest. He vaguely recognises it as his band outfit, and he cannot help but think he manages to make it look just as good as it had when he was young, in his photos. 

 

“I just - just wanted to make sure you - … “ the excuse fell flat under the severity of Morty’s skeptical look.

 

Enough was enough.

 

The man yelped a little in surprise when Morty closed the distance between their bodies in one tiny stride, pushing a skinny hip into Rick’s bony one. He’d have recoiled on instinct - except that his back was against the stall wall, and he couldn’t.

 

“You’ve turned into a real shitty liar over the years Rick. Cut the - cut the crap, yeah?” Morty chuckled shakily - tongue swishing down over his lower lip in that suffocatingly hot way that made Rick feel like Morty wanted to  _consume_ him. 

 

“You came ‘cos - ‘cos you wanted to be close to me,” when Rick opens his mouth to protest, Morty silences him by rutting his hip against the man once, abruptly, and it earns him a startled snarl as the old man splutters in surprise.

 

He feels heat spread over his face when his telltale acid reflux from all of his years of alcohol abuse bubbles up past his lips, like it usually did. It’s the least sexy thing he could do. Normally he wouldn’t care. He’s done it a hundred times in public and even more around Morty, but never with when he’s pinned up against the wall and being eyed like he’s about to be dissected. Fuck.

 

He’s actually embarrassed, but Morty is utterly nonplussed, moving a hand up to Rick’s face and putting it over one ashen cheek, letting his thumb glide over the man’s lip and wipe at the fluid as though he doesn’t care how disgusting Rick is. The intimacy has short-circuited his brain. Rick C137 can’t think anymore, he’s just staring wide-eyed and completely mute.

 

“And that’s - that’s fine,” Morty breathes heavily, tilting his head slightly - thumb delicately tracing over Rick’s lower lip easily. 

 

_‘This isn’t happening - he’s - Grandpa - he’s - so old - it’s - they’re related - it’s MORTY –!’_

 

Blithely, he wondered how - why - this was happening. He’s not - he’s not a redhead, he’s not Morty’s type in any conceivable way…

 

“Rick and Morty forever and ever, right?” the bo–no, the man, the man chuckles, brown eyes swimming with knowledge, of casual acceptance. He’d clearly been thinking about this a lot longer than Rick had, and already decided what he wanted.

 

Morty Smith had grown up into a man who’d go to any lengths to get what he wants.

 

Rick wanted to reply -  _for a hundred years_ \- in agreement but found himself shuddering when the hand moves away from his lip and into his hair, running through the new - or rather - classic - hairstyle in appreciation.

 

“I like this look,” Morty murmurs suddenly - in contrast with his cocky, sly barb he’d made earlier about it being a mid-life crisis reminiscent sort of thing. He sounds so earnest that Rick believes him - and hopes this isn’t some cruel power game like so many of Morty’s affairs. He knows they’re constantly locked in a struggle, but this is the one moment he wants to be real. He isn’t an idiot - he knows he isn’t Morty’s sort even if they aren’t related, fuck it - he’s old - shit’s sagging at this point, and Morty’s… well… he grew up beautiful, didn’t he?

 

“Goddammit Grandpa Rick, why do you have to be so - so - so fucking difficult?” a low whine escapes the younger man.

 

Rick’s still mute, his eyes just look at him in confusion, Morty’s fingers move to brush his neck when they’re done with his hair - feeling the erratic pulse of Rick’s heartbeat through his skin. It’s wildly exciting - making the most powerful, smart man in the multiverse nervous like that. Anxious for him. 

 

“You could have just come up to me yesterday - told me what you thought of me. Shit, y-y-you’ve never been shy about it before. Lucky your body at has a fu–fuckin’ clue,” Morty snorts, grinding steadily against Rick and ignoring how irritating the skull buckle is against his hips, because he can feel Rick starting to get hard. Good.

 

“ _Should have come to me -_ “ his tone is lower and he pushes his face close - too close - lips brushing his ear and raising goosebumps easily.

 

“Should have  _ **told me what you wanted**_ ,” he growled, like there was an undercurrent of angered irritation in his tone.

 

“Instead of sta–standing there and making me fuck some sloppy substitute whose doing fucking  _art history_ - “ he snarls, like it’s all somehow Rick’s fault.

 

The old man is practically dizzy with how much Morty’s unfathomable desire is throwing him for a loop, his mind just on the fact of how self-consciously hard he’s getting.

 

 _“Don’t - don’t try to feed me shit and say it’s chocolate - you were hard as fuck you dirty old man, dripping into your pants,”_  he’s practically panting now, and Rick finds his body arching slightly, trying to make more contact with Morty’s skin, his chest pushing up against his through all of their clothes. The heat was - delicious - he could just - he could drown himself in it far more easily than any liquor. Morty’s intoxicating. He thinks - and narrowly muses how much he wouldn’t be able to handle it if this is just a game.

 

 _“Like you are now,”_  Morty acknowledges, letting his tongue flick Rick’s ear.

 

“Y-Yeah - r-right,” Rick barely manages to collect his wits enough to respond. He desperately wants this to be real. More than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

 

“L-like I’m - I’m c-comin’ up to you.. and s-saying hey… y-your sixty-five y-year old grandpa w-wants to fuck y-you,” he snorts, trying to gather his sarcasm before realising with horror, that insecurity is wheedling into his tone, and Morty picks up on it like a bloodhound. The fucker.

 

“Oh yes,” Morty continues, his voice taking on a low, dulcet croon “-how terrible. The most intelligent man in the multiverse wants me all to himself. A man who builds w-worlds for fun and destroys empires in an instant - whose given me the best years of my l-life wants me. The only person I respect. How fucking  _horrible_ for me,” he said sarcastically. “G-get over it Rick. Instead of this halfway bullshit where you - you keep me home instead of go out of state, but don’t admit it’s cos you need me. Where you keep following me, like you have tonight, and tell me it’s to keep me safe. G-get the f- **fuck**  over yourself Rick. You’re not above having feelings,” 

 

Rick’s at a loss for words again, but feeling utterly told off, he cannot help the whimper that escapes when Morty pulls back from his ear, and moves to his lips, placing his own at the very corner in a teasing motion. He wonders briefly, if it’s because kissing him is disgusting, and it’s the taste of vomit via acid reflux that’s off-putting. He wishes Morty didn’t have the exclusive ability to make him so _hot_ and so self-conscious.

 

He wants to say he destroys everything good he touches, that he’s not good at this - even if he got over how wrong it was, but then Morty looks at him - and suddenly both hands are holding his face like he’s the most important thing there.

 

Rick hates it, but he melts - he melts before he can stop it because Morty’s never looked at anyone like that. Not even Jessica.

 

“I’m not your type,” he gasps out - and he despises his mouth for betraying him. Rick Sanchez likes to keep all of his insecurities and his feelings bottled up until he’s drunk enough that they explode. Morty just chuckles against his face - of course - all of the people he’d been bringing home on purpose must have done their job and got to Rick. Damaged his ego, even.

 

“We’re way past types Rick. Some people just…need to be together, and th-they don’t work otherwise. Part of you knows that. Or you wouldn’t be here, and I’d be at the same college Summer’s at,” he murmurs.

 

Rick gasps when Morty finally kisses him, but it’s none of the violent, aggressive motions he’d fantasised about when he slips his hand into his briefs and jacks off after walking in on him doing just that to someone else. It’s long, and it’s soft - if Morty gives a shit about however gross he must taste, he doesn’t care, and reverently sweeps his tongue over Rick’s lip, before giving it the gentlest of tugs with his teeth after letting go, relishing in how they swell up slightly in response. He’s not conventionally attractive anymore - and he’s rail thin and - ohhh - but Morty’s hands… they don’t _care._

 

They roam over the free expanse of chest his outfit shows off, dipping in and out of his pockets before Morty sighs and lets them wander down to Rick’s ass, searching his jeans between healthy gropes that make him feel like he’s seventeen again.

 

“M-M-Morty…?”

 

“Portal gun,” Morty murmured, crouching down slightly and releasing the delicious friction of their crotches so he can better search, chin pressing down into his chest from the lowered position. “I’m not fucking you in a dirty bathroom stall like some - some slutty sorority girl,” he says emphatically. When he find what he’s looking for, he raises himself up, but treats Rick to the sensation of fleeting, butterfly kisses from bellybutton to chest, to neck as he rises back to full height. His skin feels like it’s on fire with every one, his blood burning through his veins as he looks through his lashes at Morty, like he’s waiting for this to be a dream.

 

Rick’s completely red from forehead to neck now - Morty’s never seen that expression on him before, and wickedly decides in that moment that he loves it - and will do anything to see it as often as possible.

 

“You’re not my type,” Morty agrees quietly, firing up the portal gun to land them in his room. 

 

“You’re  ** _my Rick_** ,” and somehow, that means so much more.


	3. Intoxication

Rick finds himself tumbling backwards – essentially being thrown into the swirling, green portal. He’s not used to being so ungraceful if he’s not drunk. Morty follows him immediately after, quietly relishing in his surprise. He didn’t expect the man to be so malleable, he expected more of a fight. He catches the conflict on his face when they’re both standing in Morty’s bedroom – something about them doing this –  _really doing this_  – in the family home seemed almost sacrilegious.

 

Morty doesn’t care though - he’s bothered for a slightly different reason.

 

It feels like it should be more special than it is, like he should be throwing the old man down onto Egyptian cotton surrounded by a thousand candles, or something. This isn’t some teenage lust or some rancid little grooming affair. It was a constant tug of war that spanned years until Morty grew, and grew, and grew - before realising  _why_  he always ended up standing in Rick’s garage, waiting for him. All roads led to Rick and he couldn’t untangle himself even if he wanted to. Anything -  _anyone_  - else, felt like an intrusion, a distraction. How didn’t Rick get that yet? Morty mused, did he have to call it something as lofty and corny as  _soul mates_  before he understands? Whatever this was, whatever they had - it transcended  _types_  and the simplicity that came with conventional relationships. It was all-encompassing and consumed the both of them every time they tried to be apart and carve out lives without the other.

 

It’s why Morty isn’t abrupt with him, doesn’t housebreak him - and it fills the older man with confusion as his grandson gently shoves him onto his back against his mattress. 

 

He kicks off his shoes first and takes off Rick’s without grace, before crawling on top of his body and settling down on his lower legs, knees settling either side of him. 

 

Rick looks deceptively frail beneath him, and under the clear light of the room he can see his ribs when he breathes this deeply. Instinctively, Morty’s fingers race up the open, low vest-shirt that shows off near enough his whole torso. Again, that queer sense of reverence that Rick has never seen Morty exhibit others, rears its head again. Fingers brush over his left rib while the other hand explores the delicate greying happy trail. He’s in no rush - even though Rick’s still hard from that lovely, steady grinding, it’s almost embarrassing how much Morty’s ignoring it for the moment being. His eyes land on Rick’s face - he’s still flush, only his jaw is clenched and his brow is set, making him look vaguely worried as he turns his head on the pillow and looks anywhere but up.

 

“Wipe that guilty look off your face Rick,” Morty murmurs suddenly “-then turn and look at me,” he gently picks at the skull belt when his right hand hits the buckle.  _That_ gets his attention.

 

He’s quite sudden when he grabs the offending wrist, causing the man to pause, frowning - slight concern showing.

 

“Rick…?” his voice low, and gentle.

 

“If - if we do this w-we can’t… _can’t_ take it back,” Rick’s look is severe, but it looks strange when amalgamated with how hard he’s flushing. There’s the choice of wiping both of their minds of it, tucking all of this under the carpet, but Rick’s very admission tells Morty that the thought is unconscionable to him. He doesn’t bring up the memory gun because he **wants** to live with whatever happens next, and that’s why he’s warning Morty. It’s oddly sweet - all those times he’d been cruel for the hell of it, they seemed so minuscule when compared to the visage of the man under him.

 

How things change in just a few years…

 

“Your words kinda imply that w-w-we’re only going to do this once,” Morty says, devilish smile on his face, as if to say,  _you’re woefully mistaken_. Rick’s jaw goes a little slack - and he resists the urge to squirm under him like he’s some sort of virgin or something. He’s not. He’s been around the block more times than he cares to remember, but he’s not sure if he’s ever been dealt with quite so - _sweetly_  - even in actual relationships. Proven more so when Morty gently pulls his hand from Rick’s grip and grabs the offending hand with his own, raising it to his mouth with little effort. He places his lips on his knuckles, his predatory stare still piercing him as he refuses to look away.

 

Rick might have chuckled at the oddness of it if he’d expected it, but instead he just squirms a little, trying to compute what exactly he’d done to earn such reverence and care from him when it seemed like all they ever did was fight over every little thing. His hand is still there, Morty’s quiet breathing reminding him of where the wetness of his lips had been. 

 

“You’re wrong,” Morty confirms, returning Rick’s hand and moving to his skull belt buckle and releasing Rick’s hips, tossing the belt to one side. He’s agonisingly slow, not anywhere near so violent as Rick has seen him be. It’s confusing to him - because it’s all he’s ever seen and pictured him doing. The fact he cannot predict Morty though - that makes this equally hot. 

 

His finger dips into his fly and unbuttons it in a practised movement, releasing some of the tension and freeing up his erection. Instantly he felt the warmth of Morty’s hand seep through his pants and briefs, rubbing the hard lump and earning a sweet little noise. Any notion that this was a game or joke flushed itself away when Morty touched him with purpose. 

 

“If I have my way,”  _and I will_  “-I’d have you every other day,” the promise was almost foreboding, when he saw the intensity levelled at him. Morty pauses, only to shed his own blazer with a light thud, and button down his shirt to toss it in the pile.

 

“J–Jesus Morty,” Rick mumbles, feeling his brain start to hurt from how little sense this all made - _why him?_. “Y-You little… you little freak,” - it’s only half-hearted, and he gives way to a little gasp when Morty shoves his hand into his briefs without warning, wrapping firmly around his cock.

 

_‘No going back now.’_

 

Morty resists the urge to shiver with excitement when he _finally_  has Rick in his hand, pulling him out from his clothes in one sudden motion. His eyes wander down to his hand as he strokes from base to tip, Rick does his best to gather his wits. To act like this isn’t Morty doing it, not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’d be a lot more confident and a lot less insecure if it was someone else. Someone he didn’t care about. It’s impossible though - impossible when Morty is so suffocatingly gentle with him, because people so seldom are.

 

“Maybe,” Morty agrees, knowing exactly what he’s throwing away by doing this. He can’t say he’d miss the string of lays much, they don’t feel nearly so important right now. His lips curve into a little smirk - catching Rick’s open-mouthed expression, the lovely blown-out electric blue pupils, the downward combed tufts of hair splaying out over the pillow - and the healthy flush of rose that comes up so much more against his ashen skin tone. “-but if you could see what you looked like right now, maybe not,” - somehow, the logical part of Rick would find that a bit hard to swallow, but Morty’s so utterly sincere that all he can do is chew down on his lip and fight the urge to say anything else that betrays his insecurity.

 

Morty switches now, letting go of Rick so he can stick his fingers into his pants and yank them down for better access, both of them making quick work of their trousers. That flare of aggression spikes up unexpectedly when Morty’s done, in only a pair of clingy little red briefs that stretched over his skin and barely concealed his hard on. Somehow, that put Rick at ease - that he’s not the only one desperately horny. That Morty isn’t just words - that he  _wants this_  for some ungodly reason.

 

“I need to fuck you in front of a mirror one of these days, so you can see what you look like,” 

 

 _‘Fucking hell Morty’_ is the only thought Rick can manage when Morty says that, grasping him again so he can gently grind himself against his briefs. It’s a delicious kind of friction, he can see Morty oozing through the material, staining it darkly with pooling precum that rubs against him. Rick can feel all the heat pooling around his thighs, desperate for Morty to quit his teasing, but too prideful to ask.

 

“Uh - s-sh- sure, sure Morty,” he shudders out in agreement, eyes closing for a moment as he hears the bedside drawer open and Morty root around for what he assumes is lubricant. 

 

A whimper escapes when Morty stops stroking him in other to wet his fingers and palm. 

 

“Glad you agree, now sit up,” the casual authoritarianism turns him on just a little more, and Rick finds himself upright against the headboard with more eagerness than he’d want to admit.

 

He watches Morty shed his briefs and tries not to cave into how needy the sight of his unrestrained erection makes him. When Morty catches his stare, he smirks again - like he knows.  _Goddammit. Smug fuck._

 

Rick lets out a little yelp when Morty crawls over to him and moves his warm, wet hands to his ass after urging him up a little, hoisting him effortlessly onto his lap. 

 

Rick’s ashamed to admit it, but the moment he feels Morty’s cock against his stomach, he starts pushing them together, coiling his long, spidering fingers around both of their members because he can’t bare to be teased much more. Morty loses control if only for a moment, and a small whimper escapes that sends goosebumps down Rick’s spine when it catches his ear.

 

“Ah,  _Rick - that’s - good,_ ” he lets out a low noise “ _-good - “_  the praise earns him an unseen smile, and it turns the older man on a little more than it should. It only spreads when he can feel nimble, skilled fingers moving underneath him from behind, sliding with less effort than most. There’s only a momentary quiver of resistance, before he feels Rick become almost bonelessly relaxed to accommodate him.

 

“Ah - shit, M-Morty,” Rick stutters out, not because it hurts, but because Morty is taking more care than he needs, it’s touching, but he’s hard - and he wants this more than he wants patient preparation. “I’m n– I’m not some fuckin’ virgin Morty, you’re not going to hurt me,” he manages to snort derisively, as though he has any kind of control.

 

“I know,” Morty replies smoothly. “I’m just waiting for you to tell me what you want,” - he leans up into Rick’s ear, teasing it with his tongue and dripping with cockiness that makes something in his gut tighten. 

 

“I need to hear you say it Rick,” and Rick wishes he has the strength to curse him out, for trying to deconstruct him until he’s nothing but a puddle of precum and wants, but he’s already lost, because he finds himself lustily raising his bony hips and demanding Morty just do it already, letting go of their needy cock rubbing just to allow it.

 

“Fuckin - you - fucking **freak** Morty just fucking  ** _rail me_** already!” he snarls, digging his fingers into Morty’s back in a way that he’s sure probably hurts.

 

Oh, yes -  _absolute submission_  - Morty’s favourite thing - that’s all he’d ever wanted from Rick.

 

He responds by abandoning the long, delicate moves and grabs at himself to angle himself for Rick. When the head brushes past, Rick feels his knees want to buckle, Morty lets himself go as Rick lowers himself a little more. He’s very sudden - but he plunges his fingers into his grandfather’s bony hips and forces him down onto his cock with force. 

 

Rick seizes up against the younger man suddenly, his heart feeling like it’s going to pound out of his rib cage - oh, God, it did hurt - but the cursory preparation made it just a little smoother and distracted him with a pleasurable burn when Morty practically impales him onto his lap. 

 

“ **Fuck!** \- Oh f– God -  _Morty!_ - “ Rick hisses, trying to summon up a little anger but he’s enjoying this far too much, and he can’t manage much more than that. It suddenly feels like he cant breath, he _did_ ask for this - he narrowly acknowledges.

 

Morty closes his eyes for a moment - and savours what it’s like to finally be this close to him, being inside him. It’s not - it’s different - from the others, and he can vaguely tell that he’s not as resistant as the others. But, on an instinctual level, he feels it wrong to compare him to anyone, like it’s doing him a disservice. Rick is incomparable, none of them were him. If he’d been satisfied with any of them, he wouldn’t have kept on pushing Rick at every turn, pulling him into his web.

 

It’s only when Rick starts rutting against him impatiently, letting out small whines that Morty loosens his grip enough that he can start bouncing himself haplessly on his grandson’s lap. 

 

Rick’s fingers scrape down Morty’s back when the younger man helps him, reasserting his hands over the bruises forming around his hips and using that effortless strength to help plunge him down onto his lap. He throws his head back a bit, looking up at Rick between needy little gasps, feeling the other’s cock rub against his stomach and pool in precum in hefty smears down his abdomen.

 

 _Holy shit,_  it turns out the only thing more beautiful than Rick under him, was having Rick above him.

 

He groans when the words slip out, unbidden and ignoring the aggressive defences he kept up, drinking in the sight of Rick completely unravelling was enough to do it.

 

“G–geez, you’refuckin’ — _**perfect**_ ,” he drags out the last word into a low, heady croon that makes Rick look down at him, face a deep shade of red. Morty brings his head forward, and sinks his lips anywhere he can reach, before wedging Rick down to remain still on his cock for just long enough to sink his teeth deeply into his lower neck, and work down to his jutting collarbone, hungrily tasting the thin layer of sweat and almost moaning from how satisfying it was to watch his skin bruise under his lips to a dark, reddish purple.

 

He takes a moment to draw in some more oxygen, before easily throwing Rick back into the mattress, encouraging his legs to sit on both of his broad shoulders, because he wants to see what Rick looks like when he cums all over himself.

 

Something about seeing the man who doesn’t care about anything - not even himself - in Morty’s eyes, completely hapless, and gazing up at him like he’s the key to anything and everything the universe could possibly ask of him - that’s enough to crumble him. Any pretense of control slips. He manages a few thrusts before the man’s legs crash down onto the mattress instead when he lunges downward and begins to devour every part of Rick he can get too while rutting into his ass like an animal in heat. His fingers which were previously so gentle are now scraping down his skin and leaving wispy, white scratches while Morty pants the scientist’s name with more and more desperation.

 

_Rick, Rick, Rick, Rick, Rick_

 

And it’s world’s apart from how he was with Cavanaugh, and fuck, it feels so real. Rick doesn’t try to understand anymore, and just lets his hands find Morty’s hips, hungrily pushing his body to meet his.

 

Morty needs Rick - he needs Rick like he needs air, he needs Rick not just for this but for everything. He needs Rick inside him, he needs to be inside Rick, he needs Rick’s fingers, his moans, his undivided attention - he wants it all, and if he doesn’t get it, he’ll go through an endless amount of people - destroying them incidentally along the way - until he has him. He needed Rick to challenge him, he needed Rick to _ **reign. him. in.**_

 

He cries out against Rick’s neck when he finally cums, hips spasming slightly but forcing steadier thrusts as he rides his orgasm out inside of the man even if all he wants to do is become a boneless mess. 

 

 _“J-jesus Christ I need you,”_  he mumbles it so low he wouldn’t have heard if it wasn’t right in his ear, but if his mind wasn’t all the way with his dick, he might have responded, instead, he encourages Morty to sit up on him when he pulls out, and studies his sweat-slicked body as he jerks himself off, caving to that release that he’d been keening for since Morty ground him into the bathroom stall wall.

 

A whimper escapes when he cums before his mind catches up - shuddering when his eyes shut of their own volition and all Rick can see is a kaleidoscope of colours before absolute darkness, the delicious image of Morty splattered in some of his fluids while the rest messily land against his own stomach and down his knuckles burns into the back of his eyelids. 

 

He feels Morty collapse beside him, tucking himself into Rick’s chest and putting his ear against his erratic heartbeat, sighing heavily.

 

There’s so much they need to talk about, but neither of them can summon up the strength, bodies trembling from years of pent up, complicated emotions released in one, needy burst.

 

“Sleep here,” is all Morty says.

 

Rick does - Morty was old enough to have a lock on his room now, they wouldn’t be disturbed. He’s just surprised Morty thought he’d actually pick up and leave after that.

 

They’d talk about it in the morning, Rick decides, hand flying into Morty’s soft, curly hair. For now, everything is the way it was supposed to be. Rick and Morty - nobody else.

 

Rick and Morty forever and ever.


End file.
